Open Letter To Barack Obama

The following was sent from The Reality Check News & Information Desk to the Obama For America campaign headquarters on the late afternoon of 8/20/08.

To the faithful,

I am in no mood for professional niceties, unless it involves a devolved fit of abject rage and spite, for which I am currently well primed. Less than twenty minutes ago I took the business end of a rusty axe to this conjunctively rotten “wireless keyboard” the bloated snake oil fiends at Microsoft had the audacity to ship to my new digs here at The Loft on Clemens Estate. There is no use trying to explain the motivation for such an irrational act. Suffice to say it had to go. The goddamn thing was as useless and infuriating as nearly every half-assed piece of miserable crap those spastic nerd zombies continually pitch as technological elixir. Fuck them. They are damned lucky I don’t festoon the gnarled remains in dog shit and mail it postage due to Bill Gates’ mother.

Needless to say, this eerie mental infarction set off shock waves through the outskirts of our normally sleepy neighborhood. It’s been a rough few days for these people. Around midnight Friday, the giant maple tree at the far end of The Compound’s Building #2 cracked in half and took down several power lines, plunging miles of homes into complete darkness. Unbeknownst to them, much of their electrical current was rerouted to a phalanx of burning wires spilled along the edges of my property. I screamed; “My lawn is on fire!” for six consecutive minutes before the arriving police apprised me that lethal levels of toxic smoke had been billowing uninterrupted into my lungs the whole time.

Now an otherwise melodious late-summer afternoon is obliterated in a din of manic screeching and cursing, as I repeatedly bashed what passersby could only hope was an inanimate object onto the doorjamb of my office, and then, after kicking and stomping every key from its cheaply fashioned moorings, I stumbled into the deeper reaches of my barn to grab the bluntest object I could find and impale the enemy of my purpose: To make words, these words, sent to you.

I only recount the fallout of these ridiculous events to prove a point; shit happens, and you had better be prepared to do anything it takes to see it doesn’t derail your goal. My goal was to get this letter out today, come hell or high water or failing equipment from faceless corporate junk peddlers. We do not suffer swine with a smile here at The Desk and so shall you not suffer it from this moment forward, especially if you want to make good on this insane promise to sweep a liberal, African American intellectual from the North into the presidency. But as you face insurmountable odds, remember one crucial element: You are the Forgotten Generation’s only hope now, pal; the lost souls born at the ass-end of Boomer and before the beast-whipped sensibility of the seventies fully rendered X’s apathy.

We do not suffer swine with a smile here at The Desk and so shall you not suffer it from this moment forward, especially if you want to make good on this insane promise to sweep a liberal, African American intellectual from the North into the presidency.

Don’t fuck this up. I mean that in its most base form; DO NOT FUCK THIS UP. Any burp, any mild slip will doom us all. Listening to the dyspeptic reciting of historical perspective by mind-raped worm lizards working at the NY Times is a recipe for defeat. All those jackasses who prompted you to get in the mud ring with the Clintons have proven themselves laughingly ineffectual. Keep the chin up and the hands clean and we might survive this weird experiment until mid-September with a puncher’s chance.

A Puncher’s Chance means having little or nothing to do with the powerbrokers of this condemned Democratic Party of yours. It is loaded with freaks and losers, and no one without dung for brains believes a single word any of them utter. Shit, two years ago the lot of them were elected railing endlessly about stopping “the war”, but as you may have noticed, it was as binding as a mortgage writ on the Florida coast. Time to finally distance yourself from those who will anchor your wings, including deranged assholes like Jesse Jackson who canonize victimhood, but they are nothing more than malicious creatures devoid of conscience. When they reach out to befriend you your soul will whither to dust. There is clearly documented incidents of this in the Library Of Congress – look it up.

Jesus, man, you’re not even from the South! How is this supposed to work exactly? I can tell you now, ignore the South, the whole horrible abortion of it, just make as if it never existed, as Lincoln did. You stand in awe when you realize that in 1860 the greatest president this country ever produced carried only two of 996 counties below the Mason-Dixon line. Let the goobers paint you as a snubbing elitist; it only emboldens the Midwest. Those people are angry for being jerked around for twenty years by the socio-theological yammering that passes for political platform. They don’t give half a fart who marries whom or gun laws or rap music; they want to be counted, so get the count. Get it twice if you have to. Ask Teddy K. how to do it before he slips into final unconsciousness.

Next week you’re going to stand in a football stadium and pomp it up, but know this; only the most wretched, morally stained mutants can survive what you are about to encounter. I have watched a parade of dime-store charlatans maneuver their rotting corpses into the White House for over four decades, and for the first time someone born within fourteen months of me, and in a stunning development, actually someone who doesn’t want to make me gag has a shot at the Big Chair.

Focus on that and forget all these silly pleas for Eastern Europe or asinine lip service for a Maoist Fairness Doctrine and begin to pay attention to the white-haired wild man behind the curtain. His eyes never look right to me. They dart queerly and his grin is a mask of sinister madness. But I am not averse to vote for him. I do not hate John McCain as I have hated almost everyone who has fronted a major party since 1972, but McCain used to have a point, now he believes in nothing but winning. I find that strangely refreshing, like Brett Favre going all Paris Hilton to play another down of football. But this is more than politics or voting or a laying of hands. It is about destiny and righteousness and getting what I want, what you want, to force the bastards to eat dirt and like it.

So as I sit here banging on my old, reliable keyboard and stare unblinkingly at the mutilated remnants of what used to pass for newfangled technology, once a shiny beacon of possibility silenced forever beneath a blizzard of misguided passion, I offer these words of wisdom: One man’s salvation is another’s demon.